


Matrimony

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Crying, Emotions, F/M, Kay!verse, Kisses, Reference to Drug Use, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Christine returns to Erik sooner than she was supposed to, and in a wedding officiated only by the Daroga they pledge themselves to each other in the house beneath the Opera.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Etched with Tears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321531) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration). 



> Written because when I asked on Tumblr for ficlet prompts, rienerose requested a wedding scene. Plus this scene had been on my mind for some time.

His throat is so tight he can barely speak, barely force out the “I do” Nadir asks of him. Christine smiles up, squeezes his fingers tight, her own eyes watery. Nadir’s soft words wash over him, made to suit the moment. How could _Nadir_ know Catholic wedding vows? It never occurred to him to ask until now. The realisation dawns on him that _of course_ Nadir doesn’t know Catholic wedding vows; he is stitching something together as they go along. _He_ hardly knows Catholic wedding vows, and that was a definite line of Persian. How does Persian have a place at _his_ wedding? Discounting Nadir it hardly does, and yet there is something right, something appropriate about it.

Besides, it would just be unnatural to present Nadir with a Bible and ask him to read in Latin.

A laugh bubbles up inside of him, and he chokes it down. If he starts laughing now he’ll never be able to stop, and it will turn into tears and he’ll fall at her feet a weeping mess because she’s here, she’s _really here_. The very thought leaves him weak.

She came back. It is almost more than he can comprehend. She did not marry the Vicomte, chose _him_ over a lifetime of luxury with someone handsome, someone who can be with her always, and his heart aches but he _will not_ have an attack now, _will not_ ruin this moment like that.

She is so pale, so pale and so beautiful, and it is all he can do not to let go of her hand and trace her cheek, feel that smooth beauty beneath his fingertips. As if she knows what she is thinking she squeezes his hand, and his breath flutters in his throat.

Perhaps it is a morphine-dream. It would not be the first time he has hallucinated her. But her hand is warm in his, and his hallucinations have never been warm, and she is _here_.

Her lips curve into a soft smile and he swallows back the threatening tears. What has he ever done to deserve her?

“I do,” she breathes, and one of her tears drops onto their joined hands as he slips the ring onto her finger.

He feels like there should be music, violins and pianos and cellos enfolding them, hears it in his mind, how high it would soar and his fingers itch to play the keys. But of course, there is no music only them, and Nadir, standing five storeys underground. It is not the wedding he envisioned all of those weeks ago, her white dress forsaken for the dark blue one she came to him in, and he in his best suit, a purple shirt he’ll never wear again, trembling and weak before her at the thought, the very thought that _she is here_ and his heart tightens again, and he forces a smile through it, her touch gentle as she slips a ring onto his own finger. No, it is not the wedding he envisioned, but it is perfect nonetheless.

Perhaps, it is even better this way.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick with tears, and presses his lips to the cold ring on her finger. Married. They are _married_. She chose _him_. She _loves_ him. “I love you.” The words are half-strangled in his throat, and he kisses her cheek, lingers there. She is so warm, so _real_ , leaning into his touch, and he suppresses a whimper in his throat. It would not do to let her see him _completely_ undone, however much he feels himself crumbling inside. “I love you.” He kisses her forehead, as gentle as he can, and if he had to live on giving her such kisses for the rest of his life he would, and it would be enough. More than enough.

But Christine, oh his dear Christine, his wonderful, beautiful Christine, fists her hands in his lapels and draws him down, and presses her lips to his, and now the tears _do_ come, at last, and there is nothing that he can do to stop them.

He breaks the kiss, pulls her close and buries his face in her hair. She presses herself tighter, closer, as if she might try hard enough that they can simply mould together, and he would not object, never, would hold her like this forever (he has never _imagined_ how it might feel to hold her like this). His wife. She is truly his wife, and his knees buckle and she is here to catch him.


End file.
